Free Under the Mistletoe by Jill Shalvis

time—the fear, the stress, the anxiety.
    The utter helplessness.
    And that overwhelming, ever-present, life-sucking guilt. Looking at Tara, Ford saw it all. He knew that she felt that they’d done the right thing. She’d always felt that way. But any woman would still feel the pang of giving up her own flesh and blood. She’d carried Mia, had been the one to feel her wriggle and kick, to feel her every hiccup.
    And then had been left with little choice but to sign her away.
    “I smell something burning,” Mia said, and pointed to the stovetop, which was now smoking.
    Yep, something was burning all right. Ford stepped behind Tara, took the spatula out of her hand, and turned off the burner. He carried the pan, and the blackened omelet in it, to the sink, where it hissed and smoked some more when he added cold water to the mix.
    “I burnt it,” Tara murmured.
    “Yeah,” Mia said, eyeing the pan. “You killed it dead.”
    “I never burn anything.”
    “No biggie,” Mia said quietly. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway. Should I go?”
    “No.” Tara straightened, seeming to come into herself again. “Mia, my burning breakfast was an accident. Like forgetting to go to the dentist. Like running out of gas on the highway…” She paused and swallowed hard. “But having a baby, that would never be classified as an accident. Not by me. I want you to know that. I’m not good at this. At revisiting the past, or talking about things that—I’m not good at emotions and feelings. But I want—I need you to know that I never thought of you as an accident. And I want you to stay.”
    Mia didn’t look away as a myriad of emotions crossed her face. After a long beat, she swallowed hard. “Okay. Thanks.”
    In the heavily weighted silence, Ford went to the refrigerator. Time for improvisation, and his eyes locked on a big, juicy-looking strawberry pie. Worked for him. He grabbed it, carrying the tin heaped with brilliant red strawberries and dripping with glaze to the table.
    “That’s my Kick-Ass Strawberry Pie,” Tara said, surprised.
    “Yes, and now it’s Kick-Ass Breakfast.” Ford pointed to the chairs. “Sit.”
    Tara shocked him by actually following his direction. Mia followed suit, and he cut the pie into three huge thirds.
    Tara choked. “I can’t feed our daughter strawberry pie for breakfast.”
    “Why not?”
    “Yeah,” Mia asked. “Why not?”
    “Because…” Tara appeared to search for a reason. “It’s not healthy.”
    “It’s got fruit,” Mia said.
    Tara looked at her. The awkwardness was still there. The air was filled with it, as well as unspoken questions and answers. But finally she nodded. Kick-Ass Breakfast it would be.
    Mia gazed down at her third of the pie, her pretty hair sweeping into her eyes—which might be Ford’s own green but they were guarded like Tara’s.
    His daughter, he repeated to himself. God . His daughter. She was careful. Controlled. Smart. And when she reached up and impatiently shoved her hair out of the way, he couldn’t hold back the smile.
    “What?” she wanted to know.
    “You remind me of Tara at your age,” he said. “Ready to tell us how you found us?”
    “My dad helped me.”
    Ford couldn’t help it: he flinched at the word dad , something he’d certainly never been to her. Tara met his gaze, and the understanding and compassion in her eyes were far too much for him to take. Getting up from the table, he poured three glasses of cold milk.
    “I’d tried to find you before,” Mia said, “but I couldn’t. Then when Phoebe Traeger died, she left me some money.” She looked at Tara. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
    “Thank you,” Tara said quietly. “You got the money around Thanksgiving.”
    “Yes, and with it came a letter from her. She said she wasn’t supposed to make herself known to me. That she was breaking rules and promises all over the place, but that she was dead and if people didn’t like it, they could suck it. Her